


you’re all about dark arts (but i could be into that)

by brophigenia



Series: the one where they all go to hogwarts [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Blue and Proko are Ravenclaws, Blue is the Hogwarts Champion, Dirty Talk, First Time, Gansey and Ronan and Adam are Slytherins, Kavinsky is the Dumstrang Champion, M/M, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Triwizard Tournament, bookworm proko, mentions of ghost-related voyeurism, mentions of moaning myrtle, proko/blue bromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 00:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17652695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The Triwizard Tournament is the best thing that ever happened to Ilya Prokopenko.(AKA, more Hogwarts!AU)





	you’re all about dark arts (but i could be into that)

**Author's Note:**

> You KNOW that Blue has to carry Proko on her back up the stairs every time they wanna break the rules and hang out in each others' dorm. 
> 
> Title from Durmstrang Boy by the Parslemouths

“I think it’s all a scheme,” Prokopenko said, not looking up from the large, dusty book he was reading, sprawled belly-down on one of the thick carpets in the Ravenclaw common room. 

Blue sighed and rolled her eyes, scrawling out another line of Defense Against the Dark Arts homework on the scrap of parchment she’d painstakingly measured out— Professor Greenmantle had assigned six inches on his exploit with the bandersnatch detailed in the bestseller  _ My Breakfast With The Bandersnatch.  _ Blue would not waste a spare inch on the pedantic thing; it was bad enough that they’d fired Professor Beck and then the whole mess with Professor Whelk, and now they had  _ this  _ idiot, who couldn’t tell the difference between a Cornish pasty and a Cornish pixie. 

“What  _ kind  _ of scheme?” She asked begrudgingly when he huffed and gave her a  _ Look,  _ pouty and reproachful. 

Satisfied, he hummed and turned the page before continuing. “The administration is obviously groaning under the weight of too many students; I think they’ve been trying to thin out the herd for years, hiring murderers and werewolves and now going along with  _ this.”  _ Prokopenko waved an absent hand, indicating with the gesture the entirety of the ridiculous mess that was the Triwizard Tournament. 

Blue snorted, and cursed when ink dribbled from the nib of her ancient quill. A quick cleaning charm erased the stain but also erased a full half-inch of writing.  _ Merlin’s fucking underpants.  _ Proko didn’t offer to help, though he was aces at Charms and undoubtedly knew how to fix her mistake. He was completely engrossed in his book, which was either a lurid romance heavy on the blood purity and homoeroticism or a complete history of the magical presence in South American countries that started with the letter  _ B.  _ With Proko, it could go either way. For a buttoned-up Ravenclaw virgin, he had a racy streak a mile wide. The pile of  _ Playwitch  _ magazines under his bed spoke to that. 

_...Not _ that Blue knew anything about that. 

“I doubt that they’re trying to actively kill us, Penny.” She placated by rote, and they did not speak again for the rest of the night, until it was time to part ways at the staircases that led, respectively, to the boys’ and girls’ dormitories. 

***

“Who the  _ fuck,”  _ Proko whispered fiercely, his bony fingers curled like claws and digging into her upper arms, his entire body curving so he could speak right in her ear. His breath was kind of unpleasantly warm and moist; Blue shuddered in disgust and rolled her eyes in annoyance but did not attempt to shake him off. She knew resistance was futile; Proko was like the Giant Squid that lived in the Great Lake. Impossible to escape, once you were in his grasp. 

“That’s Kavinsky.” She hissed back, just as fierce. Kavinsky, draped in more fur and gold chains than a drunk eighty year old socialite, made his way up to Headmistress McGonagall with entirely too much swagger. She held the scrap of paper with his name on it between the very tips of two fingers, her mouth pursed in what could only be disgust or possibly extreme disapproval. 

“I  _ know,”  _ Prokopenko all but shrieked, the know-it-all in him warring with the incorrigible  _ slut.  _ “I’m saying— Merlin—  _ who the fuck  _ said he could be that  _ hot—“  _ his soliloquy of protestation and lust was cut off by McGonagall reading off the name of the Beauxbatons champion, a blonde girl called  _ Piper Laumonier  _ who looked entirely too old to be seventeen.  

“And now, for our Hogwarts champion!” McGonagall called out, the amplification charm she’d used ensuring that everyone in a half mile radius could hear her loud and clear. In her seat at the long table reserved for faculty, Persephone pressed a hand over her heart and frowned. 

Blue was so caught on the sight that for a moment, she did not register her own name being called, nor the silence that followed. Proko had no such compunctions; he dragged her upright and flung her up the aisle between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. She made her way up to McGonagall on numb legs, still uncomprehending. 

McGonagall gave a short speech on eternal glory and risk, announced the Tournament open, and then waved her wand to summon the feast, platters and goblets filling up all along the tables. Before she could return to her seat, McGonagall caught Blue’s arm and leaned in close, speaking low and conspiratorial. “You will do excellently, Miss Sargent,” she said, and her lined face practically glowed with pride. “You will do your House and your school very proud.” 

Blue nodded, determination beginning to seep back into her chest, and made her way back to where Proko was flopping about like a Muppet in sheer tortured busybodied glee. 

***

“So which one are you going to take to the Ball?” Proko asked, draped across her bed with his nose in a  _ Witch Weekly _ magazine he’d stolen from Orla.  _ What does your wand core say about your sex life?  _ its headline screamed in lurid pink over a photo of the Weird Sisters, who were staging a comeback tour. 

Blue, laid on the floor with a pillow over her face, groaned in response. “Neither.” She said, cheeks burning, thinking of the blithe way Gansey had attempted to negotiate her taking Adam to the Ball, and the sharp way Adam had spoken of his lack of dress robes and his inability to waltz, prickly and self-deprecating in a way that, as guilty as it made her feel even to  _ think  _ it, exhausted her. 

Proko hummed in total understanding, as if she had said all of it aloud. Not for the first time, Blue wondered if he was secretly a Legilimens. 

“In that case, take me.” It was said so casually that for a moment Blue did not register it, but when she did she threw the pillow away in favor of staring at him incredulously. 

_ “What?” _ Proko rolled his eyes at her disbelief, scoffing at her. 

“Ugh. In your  _ dreams,  _ Sargent.” He tossed his head. Fucking  _ Purebloods,  _ she couldn’t  _ stand  _ them. “No, I am in need of a bit of spotlight, is all.” He was still speaking in that forced-casual tone, and Blue narrowed her eyes in suspicion. 

“For what.” It wasn’t a question, because of course it was because of Kavinsky; Proko had been a frothing mess over the Durmstrang champion since the Durmstrang contingency had shown up at Hogwarts, always pretending he wasn’t positively  _ gaping  _ at Kavinsky at every available opportunity. 

“Mind your own business.” Proko spoke lightning quick. “Now, go ahead and ask me so we can start coordinating outfits.” 

Blue sighed for approximately three minutes straight. “Ilya Prokopenko—“ Proko cleared his throat meaningfully, and she rolled her eyes, correcting herself. “Ilya Mikhail Perseus Prokopenko the Second, will you  _ please  _ do me the honor of being my escort for the Yule Ball?” She put on a dramatic, gasping sort of tone, clasping her hands together in a pleading gesture. 

Proko hid his little pleased grin behind his magazine. “Yes, I will.” He cleared his throat. “Do you  _ really _ think that unicorn hair means you’re a power bottom?” 

Proko’s wand core was unicorn hair. 

“Absolutely.” Blue said decisively, and didn’t complain too much when that earned her a pillow to the head. 

***

“You know,” Proko said thoughtfully. “I really didn’t think the Ball was going to be  _ this  _ exciting.” As he spoke, Ronan threw a punch into Kavinsky’s nose that connected with an audible  _ crunch  _ and a frankly excessive spray of blood. Kavinsky’s white fur coat (which was possibly polar bear, and  _ definitely  _ made Blue’s sense of conservation set off cacophonous alarm bells) was stained with it, but he shook the thing off to free up his reach and immediately punched Ronan in  _ his  _ nose. 

“Merlin’s fucking underpants.” Blue said, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, Gansey had waded into the fray and, when his attempts to  _ reason  _ with the fighting pair failed, got drawn into a grappling match with one of Kavinsky’s Durmstrang buddies, a handsome cinnamon-skinned young man that Blue thought was possibly named  _ Goose  _ or  _ Duck.  _ Something to do with a large bird. 

McGonagall, with a stammering Professor Greenmantle in tow, arrived in a flurry of green velvet dress robes to break up the fray, which by that time included two ghosts, Professor McGinnis, and Ronan’s frankly-terrifying pet raven, Chainsaw, who Blue suspected to be an unregistered Animagus and possibly also a mass murderer. She’d read about the Pettigrew disaster. Things like that happened. 

“You can say that again,” Proko sighed dreamily, watching Kavinsky get dragged off by the ear by his headmaster. 

“I need firewhisky.” Blue said decisively. “Fucking  _ boys.”  _

_ “Boys.”  _ Proko agreed, still dreamy. 

_ Two  _ firewhiskies. And maybe a vacation. 

***

“Who even  _ are  _ you?” Kavinsky asked, his voice stuffy from the fact that his nose had swelled and was packed with cotton instead of being spelled back to rights, a sign that Madame Pomfrey was fed up with the antics of hormonal teenage wizards and had decided to leave them to the consequences of their idiocy. 

Even with two rapidly-darkening black eyes and a fucked up nose, Kavinsky was still unfairly hot. It was terrible. Really. Proko thought for a moment about the likelihood that Kavinsky had Veela blood and discarded the notion, considering his dark hair and olive complexion, a sign that told him that  _ if  _ Kavinsky had any Veela ancestry, it was far enough back not to have any effect on his sexual attractiveness. 

“I’m Ilya Prokopenko.” Proko said, with a tone that said  _ now shut the fuck up.  _ It was one he’d perfected at an early age, and usually used during society parties thrown by his pureblood parents for their pureblood friends. Bitchy and high class and entirely suitable for his aristocratic features and finely-tailored dress robes, which were impeccable even though they were very  _ yellow, _ so as to match Blue’s robes, which he’d suspected she’d chosen only because she knew he detested yellow. 

“And?” Kavinsky asked, shoulders forward in a defensive hunch. Proko rolled his eyes and made a  _ shush _ motion. 

“Do you  _ want  _ to get caught?” He asked, voice much lower in volume than Kavinsky had had the good sense to be. 

“Doing  _ what?”  _ Kavinsky snarled, patience clearly worn very thin, but then Proko was undoing the single fastening that held his robes closed and he stopped asking questions in favor of propping himself up on his elbows and smirking, taking Proko in from his carved collarbones to his toned stomach to the truly  _ picturesque _ way he filled out his boxer briefs, if Proko did say so himself. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for  _ weeks,”  _ Proko confessed, hushed, and then was shimmying his boxer briefs down his legs, toeing off his dress shoes and going to throw one long, bare leg over Kavinsky’s hips, pausing briefly for a quick consent check. “Do you mind?” 

Kavinsky stared up at him dumbly for a second and then shook himself, hands shooting up to grab hold of Proko’s hips over the loosened sides of his robes, dragging him into place perched on Kavinsky’s lap. Through his trousers, Proko could feel Kavinsky’s cock, which was hard and satisfactorily  _ thick _ . He grinned, sharp, down at his prey. 

It was nothing to unzip Kavinsky’s trousers and haul them down just enough to let Proko work himself down onto that glorious cock, already wet and wanting and open from fingering himself in the lavatory on the second floor, cheek pressed to the cool stall wall and ignoring the scandalized-but-interested simpering coming from the toilet behind him. He’d had more on his mind than voyeuristic teenage ghost girls. 

(He’d never  _ minded _ being watched, anyway.) 

“Fuck,” Proko whispered when he was fully seated, blinking a bit dumbly and feeling his brain short circuit. It was better than any of the toys he’d gotten from the Broomstixxx mail-order catalogue; it was better than getting top marks on an essay, better than flinging the Quaffle into the other team’s goal, better than firewhisky— it was better than  _ everything.  _ “I knew I’d like it,” he murmured dreamily as he began rocking, grinding, not lifting up in the slightest, just working the head of Kavinsky’s cock against the spot inside of him that always made him see sparks. “I knew— fuck. Oh fuck.” 

Kavinsky’s mouth was open and  _ wet,  _ split lower lip reopened and blood blooming from the wound. Proko pressed his fingers to the cut, smeared them scarlet, and stuck them into Kavinsky’s mouth, petting gently over his tongue. Kavinsky  _ moaned,  _ too loud, sucking his own blood off of Proko’s fingers like he never wanted to do anything but that for the next twenty, thirty years. 

“I’m going to come.” Proko said suddenly, and curled up with the force of it, forehead knocking into Kavinsky’s jaw, teeth closing on Kavinsky’s collarbone through his silken white dress robes. He striped those expensive garments in his come and didn’t even care, straightening up to arch his back and roll his hips lazily once, twice, three times more, making Kavinsky give a guttural groan and a curse around his fingers, teeth sharp, and come, too. 

Proko gave them both a minute to gasp for breath and come back to earth before he was extricating himself, standing on legs that were a bit weak at the knees but would, he noted pleasedly, certainly support him as he slipped back to the common room. He brought himself back to a good semblance of  _ put together  _ and was all ready to slip out through the curtains around Kavinsky’s hospital bed before he felt a tugging and looked down in surprise to see that Kavinsky had caught him by the sleeve. 

His dark eyes were all blown pupil and he was a mess, lying there; Proko felt a thrill just to look at him, and combined with the wetness between his thighs he was racing back towards  _ horribly turned on.  _

“When can I see you again?” It was said so quickly that Proko had to furrow his brows to understand. When he did, something pleased swooped wildly in his belly. 

“Sometime,” he said airily, and smiled dangerously when Kavinsky refused to let him go. “Maybe if you win the Tournament,” he said, lips twitching. Kavinsky wasn’t going to win. He didn’t have to be Professor Poldma to know  _ that.  _

“Fuck that,” Kavinsky said; he brought Proko’s hand to his face and pressed a kiss to the back of it, leaving behind a smear of blood that Proko didn’t bother to try and wipe away. Maybe it would dry there, and he could jerk off later and look down and see it, evidence of what they’d done. “Meet me in the Forbidden Forest tomorrow night.” 

Proko snickered, rolling his eyes. “Uh, how about  _ no?  _ I have a room. With a bed. And a window.”  _ And a couple of roommates,  _ he thought wickedly to himself. 

Somehow, though, he thought, looking back for one last glance at Kavinsky’s prone-but-coiled form as he slipped out between the curtains, he had a feeling that Jiang and Skov wouldn’t exactly  _ mind.  _

In his own hospital bed right across the aisle from Kavinsky’s, though without his curtains drawn, Ronan Lynch was all pink cheeks and embarrassed scowl and hunched posture that Proko would bet  _ anything  _ hid the fact that he was hard in his uniform pants. He couldn’t meet Proko’s eyes, but he spoke anyway. “Have you no shame?” He asked, voice low. His raven was perched on the bed rails, grooming its feathers. 

Proko laughed as he opened the door just wide enough to permit his entry into the hall.  _ “Non alios suo modulo metiri.” _ He said, leering. “Goodnight.” 

***

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
